


I Know, You Know

by mountain_ash



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Friendship, POV Jackson Whittemore, POV Stiles Stilinski, Pack in College, Post-Season/Series 05, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shared Trauma, Skype, Therapy, Triggers, Work In Progress, i like to pretend season 6 didn't happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountain_ash/pseuds/mountain_ash
Summary: Stiles no longer feels in control. He realizes he never truly was, but after the Nogitsune stole his body, he knows he'll never feel in control again. There will always be fear that he's not himself, or worse he supposes, that he is. The nightmares dog his sleep, driving blood to the delicate veins in his eyes and bruises to the skin beneath. He withdraws and hopes no one sees. Lydia pushes Jackson into his life, without preamble. One day he's simply there, on the other end of an internet connection, looking as battered and drained as Stiles. He is no longer who he was and Stiles clings to that, desperate to find what that means for himself.Jackson drags through his days, eating lunch alone and dinner under his parent's anxious glances. He feels no semblance of a life he once lived and craves escape from the suffocating city his parents have trapped him in. Rage tears at him each full moon as he shoves the creature deep within, afraid he'll erupt in scales instead of fur. If he went wrong again, there's no one here to change him back. When Lydia tells him Stiles might understand what he feels, he tries to ignore the craving for human contact. Emotional connection. Pack. But he calls and maybe finds what he needs.
Relationships: Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	I Know, You Know

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic a long, long, long time ago and then fell away from writing. Somehow, in the age of Zoom, distanced friendships, and global mental health crises, it felt appropriate to pick back up. Do note that this is a WIP, so I'm writing when I have the energy to do so and uploading as I can.

Stiles stared, utterly baffled, at his computer screen as the obnoxious call tone blared and an unmistakable ID showed beneath the blinking phone icon. Jackson. They hadn't spoken since the summer he and Derek had helped him learn control before moving to London, and while Stiles knew his whereabouts thanks to Lydia, he hadn't given the boy much thought. Here he was though, contacting Stiles of his own free will and curiosity got the better of him. He clicked ‘accept call.’

“Uh, hi.” He said awkwardly into his screen as he stared into the face of his old bully.

Jackson looked worn. There was no other way Stiles could explain it. Despite the bad camera quality, he could see Jackson’s dark circles and the creases between his eyebrows and he shivered at what he realized. He saw himself.

“Hi Stiles.” Jackson’s voice was deeper than before, though that wasn't a surprise. Stiles’ was as well.

“Is this a prank?” The prickling reminders of Jackson’s past abuses made him wary, regardless of how much he knew the other boy had changed. To his surprise Jackson didn't laugh or scoff, but rather he frowned.

“No. Lydia said I should call you.”

There was only a single reason Lydia would have told Jackson to talk to him and Stiles wanted no part in it.

“Well she was wrong.”

“Lydia’s never wrong.” This was serious if Jackson was giving Lydia credit. Or perhaps he'd really changed that much.

“Well she might not be wrong, but that doesn't mean I want to talk about this.”

Jackson didn't respond immediately and Stiles observed him as he stared down at his lap across the computer connection. Finally the other boy looked up, his jaw set in determination

“Where are you thinking of going to school?”

Stiles blinked rapidly and his mouth fell open in confusion.

“I'm sorry, what?”

Jackson rolled his eyes in a more familiar mannerism, but repeated patiently, “What schools are you looking at?”

Still confused, Stiles answered slowly. “I applied early decision to Columbia.”

He expected Jackson to ridicule his choice or tell him ‘fat chance, Stilinski,’ but instead he looked impressed. “Makes sense. Would've thought you'd stay near your dad though.” A tiny noise of surprise erupted from Stiles’ chest and he stared at Jackson in disbelief. “Don't be so shocked, Stilinski. If you don't think Lydia’s been keeping me updated on everything that happens over there, you don't know her as well as you think you do.”

“Since when were you ever the expert on Lydia?” Stiles grumbled petulantly.

“I wasn't.” Jackson replied, matter-of-fact. “Look Stiles, I'm embarrassed about how I used to be and I'm really not in the mood to relive it, so could we just move on?”

Giving Jackson the benefit of the doubt would be the path of least resistance but Stiles wasn’t willing to concede so easily.

“I want you to apologize first.” He said firmly.

“Stiles, I think it's pretty clear I-”

“Apologize.” Stiles repeated sternly, not allowing Jackson an escape. They stared hard at one another for several long moments before Jackson sighed.

“I'm sorry, Stiles. I'm sorry for treating you like shit while we were in school together.”

Something tight unwound in Stiles’ chest as Jackson said the words and he realized he'd wanted to forgive him for so long but was scared of doing so for fear that Jackson would never change. “Okay.” He said steadily.

“Okay.” Jackson repeated, a mask of tension seeming to fall from his eyes.

They sat quietly across the connection for a few moments and Stiles came to a slow realization that neither of them particularly wanted to hang up.

“What about you?” He asked dumbly, finally deciding the silence was too long.

Jackson’s head jerked up in surprise. “Huh?”

“Oh, uh, colleges.” Stiles clarified awkwardly.

“Right. I'm looking at coming back to the States actually. London’s not really my scene.” Jackson answered, before squinting uncomfortably. “I actually applied early to Columbia as well.”

Stiles mouth gaped as he debated whether he was angry about that information or not.

“Well that's awkward.” He finally said noncommittally.

Jackson nodded slowly with pursed lips. “Well, I still want to talk to you about,” he paused for thought, “stuff. But if you're not ready I can call back another time.”

“Yeah, that would be good. Um, just give me some heads up, okay? Or have Lydia warn me or something.”

They exchanged awkward goodbyes and ended the call.

That single call dwelled on Stiles’ mind for days and when there was nothing left of the short conversation for even his obsessive mind to dissect, he thought about Jackson. A lot. So much so that he finally gave into his curiosity and, pushing his pride aside, called Jackson himself.

“Stiles,” Jackson sighed wearily, “did you even think about what time it might be here?”

His gel-free hair stuck out in several directions and his blue eyes were squinting against the light. Stiles did the math and then cringed- he had called a few hours before his own bedtime which meant Jackson was likely a few hours away from his alarm.

“Sorry,” he said, surprised by how genuinely remorseful he felt.

“I can't do this conversation right now, Stilinski.”

The disappointment that swelled in Stiles’ chest must of shown because Jackson spoke again.

“Look, can I call you back in a few hours? Will that be too late for you?”

“That'll work.” Stiles answered quickly. He wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. “Thanks.”

“Bye Stilinski.”

“Bye Jackson.”

Stiles sat stock-still at his desk for the next hour simply staring at his computer until he finally came back from his thoughts long after it had gone to sleep. Such a thing was still not an option for him so he pulled open his email and sifted through the status updates on his various application components, quadruple checking that they had all been received and processed long before the actual due date.

Deciding to apply early decision to a school across the country hadn't been an easy choice, but it had been a logical one. Research had told Stiles that New York City was one of the least supernaturally active locations in America due to its low concentration of undeveloped land. Magical energy fed off of natural energy, and since NYC had very little of that in comparison to concrete, the risk of massive supernatural surges was minimal. It was the perfect location to escape the hell hole that was Beacon Hills.

Financially, Stiles had chosen a private school with sizeable endowment. Between his first generation status, struggle with ADHD, anxiety, and panic-attacks, his father's situation as a single, mid-to-low-income father, and his confoundingly impeccable grades and extracurricular involvement, Stiles felt certain he would qualify for not only need based aid, but merit based as well. If he didn't, he had promised his dad he would do a year at the tech school and then transfer to a state school.

As he pounded out another scholarship essay, Stiles’ computer rang and his chest constricted in anxiety. He froze so thoroughly the call ended itself and he could actually picture Jackson sighing in aggravation on the other end. A few seconds later his phone buzzed loudly.

_Jackson: Are you still awake?_

Stiles’ fingers shook as he typed his reply.

_Stiles: Yeah, sorry. I was away for a minute._

_Jackson: Mhmm. I'll call back. Pick up this time._

God dammit, why didn't Jackson ever believe him.

“You sure you're up for this?” Jackson asked, bleary-eyed, the moment the call connected. Stiles felt his heart hiccup for a beat or two when he saw how unguarded Jackson looked like this, and he was grateful the mic wasn't as powerful as Jackson’s ears. He didn't understand exactly what these reactions were but he knew he didn't want Jackson noticing them.

“Are you? You look half-asleep.”

“And you look half-dead. What's your point?” Jackson’s words were harsh but his tone held no heat. Stiles would actually almost call it concerned.

“Yeah well I don't exactly sleep well.” He snapped back, not controlling his voice as well as Jackson had done.

“So it gets you at night, huh?” The abrupt transition to the topic at hand caught Stiles off guard and he grunted in surprise. He assessed Jackson’s face for a while, watching for the ticks he'd learned in his attempt to keep up with his chemosignal smelling friends. No sign of insincerity showed itself in the werewolf’s vivid blue eyes and his eyebrows were furrowed in empathy rather than judgment.

“The worst of it. Sleeping pills don't help.” Stiles answered. “You?”

Jackson shook his head, suddenly avoiding eye contact. “I sleep fine once I actually get there. I have lots of triggers in public though.”

“What are they? Your triggers.” 

“Water.” A harsh breath of laughter ripped from Jackson’s throat at that one. “Almost drowned the first time I tried-out for the swim team over here. Lost out on a prime scholarship opportunity there.”

“Like you need it.” Stiles answered in faux lightheartedness. It fell flat as Jackson fixed him with a dubious glare and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Sorry.”

“Camera flashes or anything that seems like one. Blood. Snakes. Reptiles in general, I guess.”

Stiles frowned at the distant tone in Jackson’s voice as he talked about his triggers, as though he were fighting to stay calm just talking about them.

“Do you run into them often?”

“Most of them, no. The flashes, surprisingly often. I also get a lot of flashbacks any time I see anyone who looks remotely like any of the people I killed.”

Stiles gritted his teeth angrily. “Matt killed them. Not you.”

“Does telling yourself that make the nightmares stop?” Jackson asked bluntly.

“No.” Stiles swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. “But I keep trying to tell myself that, and maybe someday I'll believe it.”

“And you scream yourself awake in the meantime.”

Jackson’s sarcastic drawl made heat flare in Stiles' stomach and he felt his lips curl as his voice rose in fury. “Dammit Jackson! What the fuck did Lydia think this was going to accomplish? And what the fuck made you think that was okay to say?”

Without further thought to the panic stricken look on Jackson’s face, Stiles hung up the call with an aggressive stab of his trackpad. His breath was coming quickly and as he stared at his face in the now-dim screen he saw the manic anger in his eyes and was afraid. It wasn’t the chaotic hate he remembered seeing in the mirror when the Nogitsune had possessed him nor was it the angry grief he’d seen in himself after killing Donovan. This was pure hostility and Stiles recoiled from it aggressively, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands until they burned.

He wasn’t a hateful person. Or he hadn’t been.

The dial tone played loudly as his screen lit up with the call icon from Jackson. He stared at it briefly, unfeeling, before finally tapping ‘accept call’ with shaking hands.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Jackson’s voice immediately played through the speakers, his tone anxious and vaguely pleading. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I said that.”

Stiles couldn’t find words to say. This wasn’t a Jackson he knew how to interact with anymore and he was realizing that Jackson was facing the same struggle. They couldn’t talk to each like they’d used to and they didn’t know what to say instead.

“Stiles?” Jackson asked wearily. His eyes flashed blue as he stared down at his lap anxiously. Even across an internet connection, the show of supernatural power was enough to jolt Stiles from his frozen state.

“I heard you. No, you shouldn’t have said that.” Stiles saw Jackson’s jaw clench and he finally came to full recognition of what the emotion on his face was. Shame. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

Jackson looked up at him briefly in surprise before dropping his gaze again. “You had every right to.” His voice was so quiet, the mic barely captured it.

“No, I didn’t. I yelled before you even had a chance to realize what you said was shitty. If we’re gonna help each other, we can’t be so hard on each other.”

“Yeah, okay. That sounds good.” Jackson didn’t look convinced though and while Stiles was compelled to ignore it because this conversation had left him exhausted, he simply couldn’t.

“You don’t believe me.”

“No I don’t believe you! How could I not deserve retaliation?” His eyes were bright and something in his face was begging Stiles to understand.

“Oh. You still think you should be punished for what happened.” Jackson closed his eyes gently but his jaw clenched down firmly and Stiles watched as he swallowed hard as thought trying not to cry. He knew what that looked like. “Jackson, if you-if you feel like you need to be punished, than your mind is already doing it for you. The triggers, the panic attacks. You’re already suffering enough. But your suffering isn’t your fault. It’s Matt’s.”

Jackson tipped his head back upon these words before spinning around in his chair to face completely away from Stiles, but not before he saw the tears that had begun falling. He waited patiently for Jackson to turn back towards him, but Stiles wasn’t prepared for the thoughts that he revealed.

“Matt made me kill all those people, but he didn’t turn me into that thing. I did that, Stiles. That was all me.”

And that was it. Jackson was suffering from the memories of his time as the kanima, but beneath it all, he was suffering from the knowledge that something within himself had twisted him into the kanima in the first place. Stiles didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that. It was the truth, which was the worst thing about it. You couldn’t refute the truth, only forgive it and progress past it. But how do you forgive yourself, knowing you were a monster? Maybe you have to learn from others.

“I forgive you, Jackson. Someday you will too.”

Jackson stared at him searchingly, poorly concealed frustration in his eyes. Stiles felt certain he was attempting to detect a lie without his werewolf sense, but knew he wouldn’t know how. It must be frustrating for him, to have these conversations like a human. Relying only on human senses to forge a connection with Stiles. The strain apparently grew too much for Jackson and he huffed in frustration.

“I have to go to school. I’ll text you later or something.”

He ended the call before Stiles had a chance to reply.

~~~~~~

Jackson did, in fact, text him later. It was quite early in the morning but Stiles was already awake.

_Jackson: How can you be so casual about that?_

_Stiles: Ummmm, I’m missing something. About what?_

_Jackson: Forgiving me._

_Jackson: Not for the Kanima stuff. For everything before…_

_Stiles: Because you’ve changed._

_Jackson: I feel exactly the same._

_Stiles: You’re not._

_Jackson: Neither are you._

The pressure of his tears boiled over upon Jackson’s final text and Stiles bit down on his fist to stifle a sob that erupted from his chest, but it was no use. Tears poured out of his eyes and he curled into a ball to hold himself together as his body shook. He wasn’t the same at all, and he hated it. He was angry, violent, volatile, hostile and mean. His lack of self-control and the gaping hole in his soul had permitted a sadistic spirit to take hold of his being and destroy the lives of those he loved. He’d taken more life even when the spirit was gone. He was bad.

_Jackson: Stiles?_

_Jackson: If you can’t talk anymore that’s fine, but maybe just tell me?_

_Jackson: Look, I’m sorry if I said something wrong, but we said we were gonna talk through this stuff._

Stiles fumbled with his phone as he attempted to reply through the tremors in his hands. Jackson’s texts were several minutes apart and he hadn’t been aware of crying so long. Sobs were still wracking his body and he couldn’t make them stop and his ribs were beginning to protest the repeated contractions.

_Stiles: Call me, please._

The phone rang almost instantaneously and he accepted the call before letting the phone drop to his pillow by his ear.

“Stiles, what happened?” Anxiety coated Jackson’s velvet smooth voice with gritty roughness.

He tried answering, he really did, but Stiles’ could only force air wetly from his lungs. Part of him was aware this was a panic attack but it was unlike any he’d ever experienced and he was completely alone. Except that he wasn’t.

“What was that? Stiles are you okay?” His voice was growing louder over the tinny connection and the desperation was rubbing Stiles raw. He grabbed his phone and slowly typed out a text as he tried to tune out Jackson’s frantic questioning.

_Stiles: Can’t talk. Need you to. Calmly._

Moments passed as wavelengths carried the message to London. Stiles heard the distinct moment Jackson processed the message as his breathing calmed minutely over the line.

“I had a final presentation today. It was a group project. Turns out those suck no matter what country you live in.” Jackson’s voice gradually sloughed the gritty coating and Stiles’ breathing eased as his cadence evened out over the banal topic of daily life. “We had to dissect the symbolism in Ethan Frome. It was a cheery 20 minutes, that’s for sure. This one girl in my group is super artsy and she decided it was really important to make, like, the most aesthetic presentation poster ever so me and our other partner just handed that bit over to her while he and I organized the material. Turned out her aesthetic was even gloomier than the book and you could barely read the poster. We’re definitely getting docked some points for that.”

Jackson continued talking for several minutes until Stiles’ breath no longer caught with ragged, rib clenching spasms. He waited in silence for a while, as if leaving room for Stiles to control what happened next. In truth, he fought the impulse to hang up the phone and pretend this hadn’t happened. No part of him wanted Jackson to know the vile things he thought of himself, mostly because he didn’t want Jackson’s trite rebuttals. But Jackson had shown him his own deep seated self-loathing not eight hours earlier and Stiles had offered the same rebuttals, only they hadn’t been trite. They’d been real and honest and maybe, just maybe, Jackson’s would be too.

“I have changed.” He finally spoke quietly, his voice hoarse and quiet from the burning tears.

“Yeah.” Jackson was leaving him room to continue.

“I don’t like myself anymore. I broke so easily and that monster just wound its way in. I’m weak and useless and I hurt people because I’m so angry. I’m rash, I have been from the start. That’s what got Scott bit in the first place. He didn’t want to go and I didn’t listen and I pushed and pushed and he got bit and now I’ve killed someone.”

Pregnant quiet settled over them as Stiles’ words fell heavy on the receiver. Did he want to say more or did he want to hear what Jackson had to say? He should say more. He will say more. What does he say?

“You have changed.” Jackson repeats the words from his text and Stiles almost wants to vomit, but Jackson’s tone is so sure and steady that he suppresses the urge in order to hear him out. “You didn’t know how to stand up for yourself or protect yourself. You didn’t have any faith in yourself. You only spent time with Scott. But you’re different now. You learned and adapted and you used your knowledge to keep everyone as safe as you could. You turned down the bite because you had faith in yourself as a person. You kept Scott grounded in reality. You swallowed your own pride so that…”

He paused and Stiles could hear him swallow audibly, as though his throat were suddenly too dry. “So that Lydia could heal me. Stiles you are literally so selfless you drove the girl you loved into a battle and watched her confess her love to a monster so that she could cure me. I owe my humanity to you. So yeah, Stiles, you’ve changed, and I’m fucking grateful for it.”

Jackson didn’t know, not really, Stiles thought. Jackson’s examples were all from before the Nogitsune. He couldn’t possibly know what Stiles was like now. Jackson believed what he was saying, Stiles knew that. If he could hear Jackson’s heart, it would be the steady rhythm of a well-rehearsed drum-line. Unfortunately, Jackson’s frame of reference was too limited.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Jackson’s velvet-soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

“That’s impossible.” He chided weakly.

“Stiles, I told you that Lydia talks to me. I know enough to mean what I just said, and I will prove it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated and come visit me on [tumblr](http://a-mountain-ash.tumblr.com/)!


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